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The Hound of The Baskervilles PDF
The Hound of The Baskervilles PDF
“No mention of that local hunt, Watson,” said Holmes with a mischievous smile,
“but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am fairly justified
in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable,
unambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man
in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a
London career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick
and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room.”
“And the dog?”
“Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy stick
the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly
visible. The dog’s jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in
my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been—yes,
by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel.”
He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of the
window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up in
surprise.
“My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?”
“For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step, and
there is the ring of its owner. Don’t move, I beg you, Watson. He is a professional
brother of yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic
moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into
your life, and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer,
the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!”
The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical
country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which
jutted out between two keen, grey eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly
from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather
slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though
young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his
head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the
stick in Holmes’s hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. “I am so
very glad,” said he. “I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping
Office. I would not lose that stick for the world.”
“A presentation, I see,” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir.”
“From Charing Cross Hospital?”
“From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage.”
“Dear, dear, that’s bad!” said Holmes, shaking his head.
Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. “Why was it bad?”
“Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting
practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own.”
“Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all,” said Holmes. “And now, Dr.
James Mortimer—”
“Mister, sir, Mister—a humble M.R.C.S.”
“And a man of precise mind, evidently.”
“A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great
unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing
and not—”
“No, this is my friend Dr. Watson.”
“Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that
of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so
dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you
have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of
your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any
anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I
covet your skull.”
Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. “You are an enthusiast in
your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine,” said he. “I observe from your
forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one.”
The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with
surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the
antennæ of an insect.
Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he
took in our curious companion. “I presume, sir,” said he at last, “that it was not
merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to
call here last night and again today?”
“No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well.
I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical
man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary
problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe—”
“Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?” asked Holmes with
some asperity.
“To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must
always appeal strongly.”
“Then had you not better consult him?”
“I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is
acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently—”
“Just a little,” said Holmes. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without
more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is
in which you demand my assistance.”
Chapter 2.
The Curse of the Baskervilles
“I have in my pocket a manuscript,” said Dr. James Mortimer.
“I observed it as you entered the room,” said Holmes.
“It is an old manuscript.”
“Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.”
“How can you say that, sir?”
“You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you
have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a
document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph
upon the subject. I put that at 1730.”
“The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. “This
family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden
and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire.
I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a
strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet
he took this document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an
end as did eventually overtake him.”
Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his knee.
“You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the short. It is one
of several indications which enabled me to fix the date.”
I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head
was written: “Baskerville Hall,” and below in large, scrawling figures: “1742.”
“It appears to be a statement of some sort.”
“Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family.”
“But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you
wish to consult me?”
“Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided within
twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the
affair. With your permission I will read it to you.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his
eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and
read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative:
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his
spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter
yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire.
“Well?” said he.
“Do you not find it interesting?”
“To a collector of fairy tales.”
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.
“Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is
the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the
facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days
before that date.”
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor
readjusted his glasses and began:
Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. “Those are the
public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.”
“I must thank you,” said Sherlock Holmes, “for calling my attention to a case
which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some newspaper
comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the
Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several
interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?”
“It does.”
“Then let me have the private ones.” He leaned back, put his finger-tips together,
and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression.
“In doing so,” said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong
emotion, “I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive for
withholding it from the coroner’s inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from
placing himself in the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I
had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly
remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its already rather grim
reputation. For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less
than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with you there is no
reason why I should not be perfectly frank.
“The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are
thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles
Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton,
the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles
was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a
community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific
information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent
together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.
“Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles’s
nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this legend which I
have read you exceedingly to heart—so much so that, although he would walk in his
own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible
as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate
overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his
ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly
haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my
medical journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a
hound. The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which
vibrated with excitement.
“I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks
before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my
gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my
shoulder and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked
round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large
black calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was
compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for it.
It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst impression upon
his mind. I stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain
the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative
which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it
assumes some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was
convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had
no justification.
“It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart was, I
knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived, however chimerical the
cause of it might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought
that a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a new man.
Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was
of the same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe.
“On the night of Sir Charles’s death Barrymore the butler, who made the
discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting up late I
was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked and
corroborated all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the
footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to
have waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted
that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and
finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival.
Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his
features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly
have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But
one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were
no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did—some
little distance off, but fresh and clear.”
“Footprints?”
“Footprints.”
“A man’s or a woman’s?”
Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a
whisper as he answered.
“Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”
Chapter 3.
The Problem
I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the
doctor’s voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he
told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry
glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested.
“You saw this?”
“As clearly as I see you.”
“And you said nothing?”
“What was the use?”
“How was it that no one else saw it?”
“The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a
thought. I don’t suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend.”
“There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?”
“No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog.”
“You say it was large?”
“Enormous.”
“But it had not approached the body?”
“No.”
“What sort of night was it?’
“Damp and raw.”
“But not actually raining?”
“No.”
“What is the alley like?”
“There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The
walk in the centre is about eight feet across.”
“Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?”
“Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side.”
“I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?”
“Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor.”
“Is there any other opening?”
“None.”
“So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the house or
else to enter it by the moor-gate?”
“There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end.”
“Had Sir Charles reached this?”
“No; he lay about fifty yards from it.”
“Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer—and this is important—the marks which you saw
were on the path and not on the grass?”
“No marks could show on the grass.”
“Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?”
“Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate.”
“You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate closed?”
“Closed and padlocked.”
“How high was it?”
“About four feet high.”
“Then anyone could have got over it?”
“Yes.”
“And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?”
“None in particular.”
“Good heaven! Did no one examine?”
“Yes, I examined, myself.”
“And found nothing?”
“It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten
minutes.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.”
“Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?”
“He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern no
others.”
Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture.
“If I had only been there!” he cried. “It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest,
and one which presented immense opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel
page upon which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by the
rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer,
to think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer
for.”
“I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts to the world,
and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to do so. Besides, besides—”
“Why do you hesitate?”
“There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is
helpless.”
“You mean that the thing is supernatural?”
“I did not positively say so.”
“No, but you evidently think it.”
“Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents
which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature.”
“For example?”
“I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature
upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not
possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature,
luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a
hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the
same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of
the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a
hardy man who will cross the moor at night.”
“And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?”
“I do not know what to believe.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I have hitherto confined my investigations to this
world,” said he. “In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of
Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the
footmark is material.”
“The original hound was material enough to tug a man’s throat out, and yet he was
diabolical as well.”
“I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But now, Dr.
Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me at
all? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles’s death,
and that you desire me to do it.”
“I did not say that I desired you to do it.”
“Then, how can I assist you?”
“By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives
at Waterloo Station”—Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch—“in exactly one hour and
a quarter.”
“He being the heir?”
“Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found
that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have reached us he is
an excellent fellow in every way. I speak now not as a medical man but as a trustee
and executor of Sir Charles’s will.”
“There is no other claimant, I presume?”
“None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger
Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder.
The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third,
Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville
strain and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He
made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876
of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I
meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this
morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?”
“Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?”
“It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes
there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with
me before his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the
old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied
that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak countryside depends upon his presence.
All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if
there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own
obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for
your advice.”
Holmes considered for a little time.
“Put into plain words, the matter is this,” said he. “In your opinion there is a
diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskerville—that is
your opinion?”
“At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may
be so.”
“Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the
young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local
powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing.”
“You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if
you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I
understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He
comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?”
“I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at
my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville.”
“And then?”
“And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about
the matter.”
“How long will it take you to make up your mind?”
“Twenty-four hours. At ten o’clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much
obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans
for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you.”
“I will do so, Mr. Holmes.” He scribbled the appointment on his shirt-cuff and
hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at
the head of the stair.
“Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles
Baskerville’s death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?”
“Three people did.”
“Did any see it after?”
“I have not heard of any.”
“Thank you. Good-morning.”
Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which meant
that he had a congenial task before him.
“Going out, Watson?”
“Unless I can help you.”
“No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But this
is splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass Bradley’s,
would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It
would be as well if you could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then
I should be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem
which has been submitted to us this morning.”
I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours
of intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle of evidence,
constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his
mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the
day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine
o’clock when I found myself in the sitting-room once more.
My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the
room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred
by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of
strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through
the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an
armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around
him.
“Caught cold, Watson?” said he.
“No, it’s this poisonous atmosphere.”
“I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it.”
“Thick! It is intolerable.”
“Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“Am I right?”
“Certainly, but how?”
He laughed at my bewildered expression. “There is a delightful freshness about
you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess
at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns
immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been
a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could
he have been? Is it not obvious?”
“Well, it is rather obvious.”
“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.
Where do you think that I have been?”
“A fixture also.”
“On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire.”
“In spirit?”
“Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe,
consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of
tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford’s for the Ordnance map of this
portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I
could find my way about.”
“A large-scale map, I presume?”
“Very large.”
He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. “Here you have the particular
district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle.”
“With a wood round it?”
“Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch
along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump
of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his
headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few
scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There
is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalist—Stapleton, if
I remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and
Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown.
Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This,
then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help
to play it again.”
“It must be a wild place.”
“Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs
of men—”
“Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation.”
“The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two
questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been
committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was it committed? Of
course, if Dr. Mortimer’s surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces
outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are
bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we’ll
shut that window again, if you don’t mind. It is a singular thing, but I find that a
concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to
the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my
convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?”
“Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day.”
“What do you make of it?”
“It is very bewildering.”
“It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of distinction about it.
That change in the footprints, for example. What do you make of that?”
“Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of the alley.”
“He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a man walk
on tiptoe down the alley?”
“What then?”
“He was running, Watson—running desperately, running for his life, running until
he burst his heart—and fell dead upon his face.”
“Running from what?”
“There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed with fear
before ever he began to run.”
“How can you say that?”
“I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. If that
were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have
run from the house instead of towards it. If the gipsy’s evidence may be taken as
true, he ran with cries for help in the direction where help was least likely to be.
Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him
in the yew alley rather than in his own house?”
“You think that he was waiting for someone?”
“The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening stroll,
but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it natural that he should stand
for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should
have given him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?”
“But he went out every evening.”
“I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening. On the contrary,
the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night he waited there. It was the night
before he made his departure for London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes
coherent. Might I ask you to hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further
thought upon this business until we have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer
and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning.”
Chapter 4.
Sir Henry Baskerville
Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his dressing-gown
for the promised interview. Our clients were punctual to their appointment, for the
clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young
baronet. The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very
sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore a
ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent
most of his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his steady eye and
the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the gentleman.
“This is Sir Henry Baskerville,” said Dr. Mortimer.
“Why, yes,” said he, “and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my
friend here had not proposed coming round to you this morning I should have come
on my own account. I understand that you think out little puzzles, and I’ve had one
this morning which wants more thinking out than I am able to give it.”
“Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you have yourself
had some remarkable experience since you arrived in London?”
“Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not. It was this
letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me this morning.”
He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was of common
quality, greyish in colour. The address, “Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland
Hotel,” was printed in rough characters; the post-mark “Charing Cross,” and the date
of posting the preceding evening.
“Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?” asked Holmes,
glancing keenly across at our visitor.
“No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer.”
“But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?”
“No, I had been staying with a friend,” said the doctor.
“There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel.”
“Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements.” Out of
the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded into four. This he opened
and spread flat upon the table. Across the middle of it a single sentence had been
formed by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It ran:
As you value your life or your reason keep away from the
moor.
And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, in which I
have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vague surmises which
clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the
death of the hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the
point where they had found a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realise the
horror of this woman’s life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid
us on her husband’s track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty
soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand
planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes
among those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the
stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy
miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once thigh-
deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around
our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into
it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those obscene depths,
so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace
that someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton
grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes sank
to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag
him out he could never have set his foot upon firm land again. He held an old black
boot in the air. “Meyers, Toronto,” was printed on the leather inside.
“It is worth a mud bath,” said he. “It is our friend Sir Henry’s missing boot.”
“Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight.”
“Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound upon the track.
He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching it. And he hurled it away at
this point of his flight. We know at least that he came so far in safety.”
But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was much which
we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps in the mire, for the
rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we at last reached firmer ground
beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest sign of them ever
met our eyes. If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton never reached that island
of refuge towards which he struggled through the fog upon that last night.
Somewhere in the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the
huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is forever
buried.
Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid his savage
ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbish showed the position
of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the crumbling remains of the cottages of the
miners, driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of
these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal
had been confined. A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among
the débris.
“A dog!” said Holmes. “By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer will never
see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place contains any secret which we
have not already fathomed. He could hide his hound, but he could not hush its voice,
and hence came those cries which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an
emergency he could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but it was always
a risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all his
efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture
with which the creature was daubed. It was suggested, of course, by the story of the
family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder
the poor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as we
ourselves might have done, when he saw such a creature bounding through the
darkness of the moor upon his track. It was a cunning device, for, apart from the
chance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire
too closely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as many have done, upon
the moor? I said it in London, Watson, and I say it again now, that never yet have
we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than he who is lying yonder”—he
swept his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which
stretched away until it merged into the russet slopes of the moor.
Chapter 15.
A Retrospection
It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy night,
on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker Street. Since the tragic
upshot of our visit to Devonshire he had been engaged in two affairs of the utmost
importance, in the first of which he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel
Upwood in connection with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in
the second he had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge of
murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her step-daughter, Mlle.
Carére, the young lady who, as it will be remembered, was found six months later
alive and married in New York. My friend was in excellent spirits over the success
which had attended a succession of difficult and important cases, so that I was able
to induce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery. I had waited patiently
for the opportunity for I was aware that he would never permit cases to overlap, and
that his clear and logical mind would not be drawn from its present work to dwell
upon memories of the past. Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London,
on their way to that long voyage which had been recommended for the restoration
of his shattered nerves. They had called upon us that very afternoon, so that it was
natural that the subject should come up for discussion.
“The whole course of events,” said Holmes, “from the point of view of the man
who called himself Stapleton was simple and direct, although to us, who had no
means in the beginning of knowing the motives of his actions and could only learn
part of the facts, it all appeared exceedingly complex. I have had the advantage of
two conversations with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely cleared
up that I am not aware that there is anything which has remained a secret to us. You
will find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my indexed list of
cases.”
“Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events from
memory.”
“Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts in my mind. Intense
mental concentration has a curious way of blotting out what has passed. The barrister
who has his case at his fingers’ ends and is able to argue with an expert upon his
own subject finds that a week or two of the courts will drive it all out of his head
once more. So each of my cases displaces the last, and Mlle. Carére has blurred my
recollection of Baskerville Hall. Tomorrow some other little problem may be
submitted to my notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French lady and the
infamous Upwood. So far as the case of the hound goes, however, I will give you
the course of events as nearly as I can, and you will suggest anything which I may
have forgotten.
“My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did not lie, and
that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of that Rodger Baskerville,
the younger brother of Sir Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation to South
America, where he was said to have died unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact,
marry, and had one child, this fellow, whose real name is the same as his father’s.
He married Beryl Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a
considerable sum of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and fled to
England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire. His reason for
attempting this special line of business was that he had struck up an acquaintance
with a consumptive tutor upon the voyage home, and that he had used this man’s
ability to make the undertaking a success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and the
school which had begun well sank from disrepute into infamy. The Vandeleurs
found it convenient to change their name to Stapleton, and he brought the remains
of his fortune, his schemes for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south
of England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized authority upon
the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has been permanently attached to a
certain moth which he had, in his Yorkshire days, been the first to describe.
“We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of such intense
interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry and found that only two lives
intervened between him and a valuable estate. When he went to Devonshire his plans
were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief from the first is evident
from the way in which he took his wife with him in the character of his sister. The
idea of using her as a decoy was clearly already in his mind, though he may not have
been certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He meant in the end to
have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool or run any risk for that end. His
first act was to establish himself as near to his ancestral home as he could, and his
second was to cultivate a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the
neighbours.
“The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared the way
for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him, knew that the old man’s
heart was weak and that a shock would kill him. So much he had learned from Dr.
Mortimer. He had heard also that Sir Charles was superstitious and had taken this
grim legend very seriously. His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which
the baronet could be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home
the guilt to the real murderer.
“Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with considerable finesse.
An ordinary schemer would have been content to work with a savage hound. The
use of artificial means to make the creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his
part. The dog he bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham
Road. It was the strongest and most savage in their possession. He brought it down
by the North Devon line and walked a great distance over the moor so as to get it
home without exciting any remarks. He had already on his insect hunts learned to
penetrate the Grimpen Mire, and so had found a safe hiding-place for the creature.
Here he kennelled it and waited his chance.
“But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be decoyed outside
of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about with his hound, but
without avail. It was during these fruitless quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen
by peasants, and that the legend of the demon dog received a new confirmation. He
had hoped that his wife might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved
unexpectedly independent. She would not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman
in a sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy. Threats and
even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her. She would have nothing to do
with it, and for a time Stapleton was at a deadlock.
“He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that Sir Charles, who
had conceived a friendship for him, made him the minister of his charity in the case
of this unfortunate woman, Mrs. Laura Lyons. By representing himself as a single
man he acquired complete influence over her, and he gave her to understand that in
the event of her obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry her. His plans
were suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about to
leave the Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself
pretended to coincide. He must act at once, or his victim might get beyond his power.
He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to write this letter, imploring the old man
to give her an interview on the evening before his departure for London. He then, by
a specious argument, prevented her from going, and so had the chance for which he
had waited.
“Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to get his hound,
to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring the beast round to the gate at which he
had reason to expect that he would find the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited
by its master, sprang over the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, who
fled screaming down the yew alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must indeed have been
a dreadful sight to see that huge black creature, with its flaming jaws and blazing
eyes, bounding after its victim. He fell dead at the end of the alley from heart disease
and terror. The hound had kept upon the grassy border while the baronet had run
down the path, so that no track but the man’s was visible. On seeing him lying still
the creature had probably approached to sniff at him, but finding him dead had turned
away again. It was then that it left the print which was actually observed by Dr.
Mortimer. The hound was called off and hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire,
and a mystery was left which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and
finally brought the case within the scope of our observation.
“So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive the devilish
cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to make a case against the real
murderer. His only accomplice was one who could never give him away, and the
grotesque, inconceivable nature of the device only served to make it more effective.
Both of the women concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons,
were left with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had
designs upon the old man, and also of the existence of the hound. Mrs. Lyons knew
neither of these things, but had been impressed by the death occurring at the time of
an uncancelled appointment which was only known to him. However, both of them
were under his influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first half of his
task was successfully accomplished but the more difficult still remained.
“It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an heir in Canada.
In any case he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was
told by the latter all details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton’s first
idea was that this young stranger from Canada might possibly be done to death in
London without coming down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever since
she had refused to help him in laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not leave
her long out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence over her. It was for this
reason that he took her to London with him. They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough
Private Hotel, in Craven Street, which was actually one of those called upon by my
agent in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her room while he,
disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and afterwards to the
station and to the Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans; but
she had such a fear of her husband—a fear founded upon brutal ill-treatment—that
she dare not write to warn the man whom she knew to be in danger. If the letter
should fall into Stapleton’s hands her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we
know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would form the
message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It reached the baronet, and
gave him the first warning of his danger.
“It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir Henry’s attire so that,
in case he was driven to use the dog, he might always have the means of setting him
upon his track. With characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once,
and we cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel was well bribed to
help him in his design. By chance, however, the first boot which was procured for
him was a new one and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had it returned
and obtained another—a most instructive incident, since it proved conclusively to
my mind that we were dealing with a real hound, as no other supposition could
explain this anxiety to obtain an old boot and this indifference to a new one. The
more outré and grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be
examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly
considered and scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it.
“Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed always by
Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my appearance, as
well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to think that Stapleton’s career of
crime has been by no means limited to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive
that during the last three years there have been four considerable burglaries in the
west country, for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at
Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling of the
page, who surprised the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot doubt that Stapleton
recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and that for years he has been a
desperate and dangerous man.
“We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he got away
from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending back my own name to
me through the cabman. From that moment he understood that I had taken over the
case in London, and that therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned to
Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the baronet.”
“One moment!” said I. “You have, no doubt, described the sequence of events
correctly, but there is one point which you have left unexplained. What became of
the hound when its master was in London?”
“I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of importance.
There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant, though it is unlikely that he
ever placed himself in his power by sharing all his plans with him. There was an old
manservant at Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the
Stapletons can be traced for several years, as far back as the school-mastering days,
so that he must have been aware that his master and mistress were really husband
and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country. It is
suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England, while Antonio is so in
all Spanish or Spanish-American countries. The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself,
spoke good English, but with a curious lisping accent. I have myself seen this old
man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very
probable, therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for the
hound, though he may never have known the purpose for which the beast was used.
“The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon followed
by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself at that time. It may
possibly recur to your memory that when I examined the paper upon which the
printed words were fastened I made a close inspection for the water-mark. In doing
so I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the
scent known as white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very
necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each other, and
cases have more than once within my own experience depended upon their prompt
recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a lady, and already my thoughts
began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had made certain of the hound, and had
guessed at the criminal before ever we went to the west country.
“It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I could not do
this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his guard. I deceived everybody,
therefore, yourself included, and I came down secretly when I was supposed to be
in London. My hardships were not so great as you imagined, though such trifling
details must never interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most
part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it was necessary
to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come down with me, and in his
disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance to me. I was dependent upon
him for food and clean linen. When I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright was
frequently watching you, so that I was able to keep my hand upon all the strings.
“I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being forwarded
instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of great service to me,
and especially that one incidentally truthful piece of biography of Stapleton’s. I was
able to establish the identity of the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how
I stood. The case had been considerably complicated through the incident of the
escaped convict and the relations between him and the Barrymores. This also you
cleared up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the same
conclusions from my own observations.
“By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete knowledge
of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go to a jury. Even Stapleton’s
attempt upon Sir Henry that night which ended in the death of the unfortunate
convict did not help us much in proving murder against our man. There seemed to
be no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry,
alone and apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a severe
shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and driving Stapleton to his
destruction. That Sir Henry should have been exposed to this is, I must confess, a
reproach to my management of the case, but we had no means of foreseeing the
terrible and paralyzing spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the
fog which enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We succeeded in our
object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me will be a
temporary one. A long journey may enable our friend to recover not only from his
shattered nerves but also from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady was deep
and sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this black business was that he should
have been deceived by her.
“It only remains to indicate the part which she had played throughout. There can
be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an influence over her which may have been
love or may have been fear, or very possibly both, since they are by no means
incompatible emotions. It was, at least, absolutely effective. At his command she
consented to pass as his sister, though he found the limits of his power over her when
he endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to warn
Sir Henry so far as she could without implicating her husband, and again and again
she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of jealousy, and
when he saw the baronet paying court to the lady, even though it was part of his own
plan, still he could not help interrupting with a passionate outburst which revealed
the fiery soul which his self-contained manner so cleverly concealed. By
encouraging the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would frequently come
to Merripit House and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity which he
desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned suddenly against him. She
had learned something of the death of the convict, and she knew that the hound was
being kept in the outhouse on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She
taxed her husband with his intended crime, and a furious scene followed in which
he showed her for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity turned in
an instant to bitter hatred, and he saw that she would betray him. He tied her up,
therefore, that she might have no chance of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no
doubt, that when the whole countryside put down the baronet’s death to the curse of
his family, as they certainly would do, he could win his wife back to accept an
accomplished fact and to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that in any
case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not been there, his doom would
none the less have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does not condone such
an injury so lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my notes, I
cannot give you a more detailed account of this curious case. I do not know that
anything essential has been left unexplained.”
“He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the old uncle
with his bogie hound.”
“The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not frighten its
victim to death, at least it would paralyze the resistance which might be offered.”
“No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into the
succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been living
unannounced under another name so close to the property? How could he claim it
without causing suspicion and inquiry?”
“It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when you expect
me to solve it. The past and the present are within the field of my inquiry, but what
a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard
her husband discuss the problem on several occasions. There were three possible
courses. He might claim the property from South America, establish his identity
before the British authorities there and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to
England at all, or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the short time that he
need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an accomplice with the proofs and
papers, putting him in as heir, and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his
income. We cannot doubt from what we know of him that he would have found some
way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of
severe work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more
pleasant channels. I have a box for Les Huguenots. Have you heard the De Reszkes?
Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini’s
for a little dinner on the way?”
THE END